A Regimental Murder

Chapter Ten

I arrived in the supper room on time that evening, and at least got to eat. Breckenridge did not appear, but the rest of the house party was there, as well as several additional gentlemen who had attended the match. Pierce Egan and Jack Sharp were notably absent.

I had expected Grenville to ply me with questions about the fight, such as why the devil I had let Breckenridge provoke me at all. But he had said nothing, only watched speculatively as his valet, a small dandified man called Gautier, had washed and bandaged my hand as though he patched up bare-knuckle boxers every day.

Lady Mary thanked me for livening up the day. A pugilist who won every match was dull, she said, but a spontaneous bout between her guests was always entertaining. She'd pinned a half-blown white rose to my coat.

Jack Sharp had, in fact, at last lost a match. Bartholomew reported to Grenville while I was being bandaged that Sharp, after standing against all comers, had finally fallen, his face a bloody mess, to a burly farm lad. Upon inquiring, Bartholomew had learned that Eggleston had hired the farm lad to take Sharp on once the man had been thoroughly tired out from the rest of the exhibition.

Eggleston giggled now about the incident, praising himself for his own cleverness. "Should not have missed it, Lacey. It was a sight to see, the famous Jack Sharp flailing under a whirlwind of blows. Blood spattering the crowd four deep." He took a large swig of wine.

Across from me, Eggleston's child bride ate with gusto. I remembered her telling me that she would rid herself of her meal not long after she ate it. She seemed determined to enjoy herself and spoke very little. Lady Breckenridge sat on my left and spent the meal ignoring me.

Tonight, at least, I was served every course and my port glass kept full at all times. I consumed more port than usual, trying to deaden the fact that my right hand hurt like the devil. The company was maddening, and I was frustrated with my ineffectualness. By the end of the meal, I was well on the way to being foxed, and the brandy I consumed after the ladies went up to bed completed the process. A few snifters' worth set up a pleasant buzz in my ears that at last drowned out Eggleston's voice.

He suggested cards, but he had a sly gleam in his eye, and I bowed out. I'd had enough of his card games.

Grenville had already gone upstairs, his politeness strained. I decided to follow him and said good night to the company, who behaved as though they cared not one whit whether I stayed or departed. The world was fuzzy about the edges as I made my way upstairs; the gods and goddesses above me writhed and whirled in obscene frenzy.

I stopped in Grenville's chamber and he and I spent another hour in companionable silence, both of us relieved at not having to make conversation. When he began to yawn, I sought my own bed.

I reached my chamber and opened the door. Lady Breckenridge lay on my bed, fully clothed, stretched out on her side, asleep, her head on my pillow.

I stopped, fingers frozen on the door handle. Had she come here in hopes I’d play the card game to its fullest intent? Or had she simply not wanted to face bed with Breckenridge? I wondered whether they even slept in the same chamber.

Asleep, her face lost its acerbic nature, lines smoothing to display her natural prettiness. She didn’t stir as I stood there, watching and wondering.

I softly crossed to the bed, pulled a quilt up over her, and left the room. She never woke.

I slept that night in an empty chamber far down the corridor, making my bed on an uncomfortable divan. I awoke at dawn, both my head and my hand competing for which could throb the most, but I was alone.

Though it was barely light and very early, I decided I wanted a dose of fresh air. Coffee would have done me better, but I disliked to wake a servant for it. I rose, shrugged on my frock coat, and let myself out.

I hobbled along the path that led from the house, drinking in the welcome chill of morning. I speculated upon whether Lady Breckenridge had gone back to her own bed or still slept in mine.

I wondered suddenly what Louisa Brandon would make of all this nonsense. I realized I missed her deeply. She would have found some joke or quip to steady me and we would have laughed together. Also, I could have told her everything, all my fears and frustrations. She would have lent me some hint or suggestion of how I could proceed. She had helped me in the past and I longed for her help now.

I found myself turning toward the stables. Stables had a comforting smell about them, horses and leather and grain and dust. I had never realized how much a part of my life horses had been until I'd given up the cavalry and could no longer afford to keep a horse of my own.

A ride would soothe me, I decided, more than a walk. I let myself into the stables. Quietly, so as not to disturb the lads sleeping above, I chose a steady-looking bay gelding and in a trice had the horse bridled and saddled.

I did have the devil of a time making the horse stand still next to the mounting block. My injury made it impossible for me to climb onto a horse from the ground. A legup was best, but a mounting block or a box helped much-from there, I could simply swing my right leg over and quickly transfer my weight to the saddle.

The horse proved immune to my bad language, but at last, I got mounted and rode quietly out of the yard.

Once on horseback, my lameness mattered little, and I could ride with only small discomfort. Within a matter of minutes, I was moving at an easy trot toward the paths in the woods.

I had been right; the ride did soothe me. I put Breckenridge and Eggleston and their odd wives behind me, and simply enjoyed a gallop over the downs. I thought of nothing but the horse moving beneath me, of my shifting balance, and the feel of the horse's mouth through the reins.

After some time of this, I felt much better. I slowed the horse and turned him back for the house, letting him breathe while I ordered my thoughts.

Eggleston and Breckenridge were proving difficult to question. I would have to pin them down or abandon the attempt. I wanted to talk again with Lydia Westin. She must know some reason why Eggleston and Breckenridge would blackmail her husband into taking the blame for Captain Spencer's death at Badajoz.

Truth to tell, I simply wanted to see her again. I wanted her to look upon me and thank me for helping her.

I sighed. I had a long way to go before she would thank me for anything.

The curious prickling between my shoulder blades suddenly returned, just as it had at the wayside inn, just as it had in the gardens the night we'd arrived. Someone followed me, someone who lingered in the trees in the bend of the road. I could taste it in the air, breathe it in the scent of dewy grass.

I abruptly wheeled the horse and plunged back the way I'd come. Startled doves fluttered from the underbrush and a rabbit dashed away across the field. Nothing else moved.

I slowed the horse and peered among the trees. The damp brown and green of the woods showed no signs of human life, and I heard nothing but early birds in song. I hesitated for a long time, disquiet settling upon me. I knew someone followed me, someone who knew how to mask their footsteps and hide themselves with skill.

I looked for a long time, holding the horse still, but I saw no one. At last, I turned the horse again and rode back to the house, looking about me, unnerved.

The stable lads were still not stirring when I entered the yard, so I removed the saddle and bridle myself and led the horse back into his box. I was too conscientious to leave the horse without rubbing him down, so I did this quickly, with a curry comb and brush I found in the tack room. The saddle and bridle, on the other hand, I left for the stable lads to clean.

Despite the unknown person tracking me, the ride had settled my nerves somewhat. I entered the house through the garden door I'd left unlocked and trudged back upstairs. I paused at my bedchamber door then bravely opened it.

To my immense relief, the room was empty. I closed the door and locked it behind me. Tired now with my short night and long ride, I removed my boots and lay down on the bed.

I felt blissfully drowsy. The ride, the port and brandy I'd imbibed the night before, and the horse care combined to send me to sleep in a trice.

So hard I slept that I did not awaken until nearly ten, which, as it turned out, proved to be most unfortunate.

Once awake, I performed my usual ablutions-washed, shaved, cleaned my teeth with tooth powder, and combed my hair. I donned my regimentals, since I seemed to have left my coat in the stables. I had a vague memory of sliding it from my shoulders as I rubbed down the horse in the morning heat.

I made my way down to the dining room, hoping to scare up a servant to bring me a large feast for breakfast. And coffee. Plenty of coffee.

When I reached the dining room, I heard raised voices on the other side of the door. One was Grenville's. Odd, because he prided himself on never shouting or losing his sangfroid in public.

The other voice was…

My eyes widened in astonishment and I opened the door.

"How the hell should I know?" Grenville was saying. "You and your wife are the closest thing…" He broke off and swung around as I entered.

The man facing him was Colonel Brandon. When Brandon saw me, his expression performed a powerful transformation from astonishment to relief to disappointed dismay.

I had witnessed the identical transformation one day a few years ago when I'd returned from a mission he'd sent me on. I had been dragged, half-dead, back to camp on a makeshift litter, and when Brandon had first seen me, he'd assumed me dead. His face had betrayed triumph, guilt, remorse, and behind that, glee. And then when I'd opened my mouth and called him a bastard, his look had changed to one of horror. He had wanted me dead, and against all odds, I lived.

His look now was little different. This morning, Brandon had once again thought, for some reason, that I was permanently out of his life.

Grenville, on the other hand, gaped at me, white-faced. "Lacey! Good God."

"What the devil is the matter?" I snapped. My headache had returned.

Grenville took two strides to me, relief lighting his eyes. He clapped both hands to my shoulders, and for a moment, I thought he would embrace me.

I frowned at him. "Tell me what has happened."

His fingers clenched my shoulders, hard, once, then he stepped back, his Adam's apple moving. "We thought you had gone and died, my friend," he said lightly. "I knew it had to be a mistake."

I looked from one man to the other. "Died?"

Grenville turned and strolled to the decanter on the sideboard. His hands were shaking. "Brandon here rushed in and told me he'd found you dead in the woods. Frightened me half to death."

My gaze switched to Brandon. His face suffused with blood. "I thought it was you," he said. "He was dressed in that brown coat of yours, or so I thought. He was facedown in the brush, and obviously dead. Hair the same color as yours, too." He glared at my head as if it were to blame for this deception.

"Did it not occur to you to roll the poor man over and discover who he was?" I demanded.

Brandon looked peevish. "He is down the side of a hill. I could not get to him through the mud and the saplings without help. Looks as though he was thrown from his horse and slid there. And a stable lad told me he'd seen you go riding in the wee hours of the morning. Sounded like a damn fool thing you would do."

"I did go," I answered. "But I returned. I even rubbed down the horse and left the furniture in the middle of the tack room. Did they not reason I'd returned?"

Grenville broke in. "Apparently not. Colonel Brandon came to rouse the house. And found only me. No one else is stirring."

Brandon sneered. "At ten o'clock on a fine summer's day. I do not think much of your friends, Mr. Grenville."

Grenville held up his hand. "They are not my friends. Believe that." He drank down a measure of brandy and clicked his glass back onto the sideboard. "Well, shall we go and see to this poor gentleman?"

Brandon led us to a lane that lay near to where I had been riding that morning. The stable lad who accompanied us called it Linden Hill Lane. Tortuous and narrow, the road climbed toward a low ridge that encircled the valley. To either side of the lane, the land fell away in steep, wooded banks. Trees grew thinly here, but the underbrush was dry as tinder in the summer heat.

About a quarter of a mile along, Brandon stopped. "There."

He pointed. A body was caught halfway down the brown hill, the brush and branches broken in a path to it. He lay facedown, very still. I could see why Brandon had thought him me. He was a tall, lean man with thick dark hair and no hat and wore a brown coat, the one I had mislaid that morning.

We stood in a semicircle, staring down at him. In addition to the stable lad, Bartholomew and Matthias had accompanied us.

"If he rode a horse up here," I began, "then where is the horse? Has it returned home?"

The stable lad shook his head. "Lad" was a misleading appellation-this man looked to be about fifty. A stable lad was simply a man, of whatever age, who looked after the tack and helped the grooms care for and exercise the horses. "Unusual, that," he said. "A horse will run right back to his own stable. Knows where the grub is, don't he?"

Grenville poked at the brush with his walking stick. "Bartholomew, can you get down there?"

The energetic young footman promptly began crashing through the dried scrub toward the body. His brother followed. I came after them, using my walking stick to bear my weight.

I slid and scrambled down the two dozen or so feet between the road and the body, arriving just as Bartholomew put out a large hand and turned the body over.

Matthias whistled.

"Who is it?" Grenville called down.

I straightened. "It's Breckenridge."